


he was just a boy with a name ( until he became a god with a title )

by girlkillsgod



Category: Shadow and Bone (TV), The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28896201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlkillsgod/pseuds/girlkillsgod
Summary: even at the end of the world, a king never kneels but for her? he will go on his knees and pray just to keep her by his side forever.
Relationships: Baghra & The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	he was just a boy with a name ( until he became a god with a title )

_even at the end of the world, a king never kneels._

memoirs of the past were hard to come, he was **ancient ——** _ageless, timeless,_ death had long since stopped calling for a name that was long gone ( _aleksander_ , his treacherous heart whispered. _your name is aleksander and it is your_ **_heart_ ** . ). but there were times when he could see glimpses of the past, of a life that wasn’t decked with such opulence but was instead **free** ; ones that belong to the temples in shu han, the winter tundras of fjerda, the brick walls of kerch, the vast forests of ravka. far and few in between the appearance of such moments might have been but he never paid them any mind ; for if he did, he would fall into the old patterns that were based on nothing but childishness ( _being hopeful was not childish,_ **_being a fool because of it was._ **).

it was the kind of risk he could not have afforded to take. it was the kind of risk he was all too happy to not indulge. it was the kind of risk that made him less of a boy than a god. it was the kind of risk that made him feel like he was slipping further into the darkness settled in the spot beneath his ribs. it was the kind of risk that chased away any glimmer of hope in his heart. it was the kind of risk that made him feel like running from the truth of what made him. **_HOW FAR COULD HE RUN WITH HIS OWN SHADOWS THREATENING TO SWALLOW HIM WHOLE? HOW LONG COULD HE WADE IN THE WATER UNTIL THEY WASH INTO HIS LUNGS, PULLING HIM INTO THE EMBRACE OF THEIR DARK CURRENTS —— NOT LETTING GO UNTIL HE DROWNS? HOW LONG? HOW FAR? HOW LONG? HOW FAR? HOW LONG HOW FAR HOW LONG HOW FAR HOWLONG HOWFAR HOWLONG HOWFARHOWLONGHOWFARHOWLONGHOWFARHOWLONG?_**

cursed child. forsaken son. wretched god.

no name, nothing but a title that weighs like the world upon atlas’ shoulders. morozova’s journals long since stopped becoming the warm blanket that welcomes him **home** —— reminding himself that the man was a genius in his own right, that his grandfather was the same despite not being totally similar ( _for are we not all things at the end of the day?_ ) ; that centuries ago there was this man with a mind so bright he harnessed the power of the stars, that he was ageless and timeless and beautiful and horrible, and that story ended with him in chains but he became a **SAINT** all the same. loved and revered and patronised. that was the ending he wanted for himself, to be immortalised in the mind of ravka, to be part of history books, to be part of the past that created the future.

_but darling, here’s the tragedy._

it was rage and loneliness entwined that he swallowed whole at too early of an age —— it was the realisation that the only thing he had left once he was stripped away of all his possessions including his name, was something that would lead to his death at the hands of both otkazat’sya and grisha who were terrified and jealous by the power of the gods he had in his veins. it was after lev and annika and sylvi and the pond that took more than he knew. madraya took one glance and thought she understood that it was too late to stop him before it even began, so she let him ; for he was her beautiful boy with the power of the universe at the tips of his fingers, wonderful child with darkness in his hands but not in his soul, beloved son with his mother’s gifts held close to his heart and hope shining in his eyes. it was only centuries after that she realised it was a mistake to let him be.

the darkness that slumbered in the body of the boy awoke, and the nights began to get longer. from then on, aleksander morozova was simply another name of the past and  **THE BLACK HERETIC** rose in his place. they said it was madness that forced the creation of the shadow fold, they said it was the kind of bloodlust that could never be sated, they said so many things but none ever got it quite right.

_it was **loneliness.**_

the constant turning of the world began to get under his nerves, he watched from afar as kingdoms rose to glory only to fall just centuries later, as the falling grains of time became faster and faster, with kings and queens and saints all dying one by one ; except for him, _never him_. he was so tired of walking to every ghost of the past and asking if he was real or if he was actually the ghost in the situation —— he certainly felt like one most days, most months, most years ; they never answered him, instead looking at him with eyes that held the barest spark of life just to show him pity.

it was loneliness that clouded his judgement, hope and delusion becoming his motivation that maybe **JUST MAYBE** if the fold was created, he would no longer be alone. it was a childish wish, a fool’s game, and yet. **he did it still.** the very fabric of the universe tore apart and in its gaping hole, came out tendrils of darkness that spanned across the entire country —— with the way it unravelled and fought against his control, it was as if it knew it would never be whole again. **_but he did it still._**

what was born were nothing like him but still held a part of him. the volcra were once men and women, they were once otkazat’sya, but now they were something more ; something better and powerful. they were his children whose sole existence was to do his bidding under the cover of the night. such results shattered whatever hope was in his chest, allowing darkness to finally consume him whole, and the black heretic began turning everything he sees into nothing but the shells of their former selves.

_but even monsters get tired._

so he discarded the mantle and took on another, pretending to be the son of the man he used to be. the black heretic died and in his ashes rose  **THE DARKLING** —— pretending to be something he never was ; a human who just realised that the power of the gods were in his hands. he didn’t know how to be one, and if the truth were ever to be told, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be, even if he knew how.

 _cursed child. forsaken son. wretched god. father of shadow and smoke. creator of monsters. he is a king and his court resides in the shadows where he holds the strings of everything and everyone. he is the night itself and if everything roaming free under its guise should be feared?_ **_so should he._**

years passed, kings were crowned and dethroned and killed, ravka begins to fall under the weight of his creation’s burden. not that it matters, the current king —— alexander lantsov iii, was doing well in ruining the nation on his own. foolish child of a tsar but he was also a sharp man, sharp enough to send him with the rest of the second army to oversee one of the first army’s ventures into the fold. not like it mattered, he bided his time, waiting for the perfect incompetent fool to sit on the throne that he had claimed as his all those centuries ago. a couple more weeks were of no consequence to the god with eternity at his beck and call.

the report that came days after, of many otkazat’sya dead and the appearance of . . . a sun summoner? hope was a foreign thing, something he never let himself feel after the disaster that was the creation of the unsea. but with every word he heard, the more it grew. a sun summoner was just within his reach —— he would no longer be alone in all of eternity. he was never one for worship. never. but with her like this, with her hand in his and her sun breaking through the darkness that plagued him ever since, caressing his skin with the kind of gentleness he never felt before ; it felt like religion, it felt like the salvation he didn’t deserve.

**_even at the end of the world, a king never kneels but for her? he will go on his knees and pray just to keep her by his side forever._ **


End file.
